Your Life Before
by Oratorio
Summary: "The heat was heavy on your skin that day, the day the men came." A short piece about Anders' childhood and what he lost.


The heat was heavy on your skin that day, the day the men came. Fields of wheat, dry and golden, stretching as far as the eye could see, stalks sharp under your feet as you raced her, swift and surefooted.

You had loved her for forever, that innocent childhood love. Since she was six and you eight, all giggles and ribbons and _Tag. You're it. _The summer brought the best of times, playing outdoors under big skies, the wonder of the world still fresh and new in your amber eyes.

Sweat beads on your skin and you taste your own saltiness on your lips as she bounds over the fence in one graceful movement, heading for the lake, a cool counterpoint to the prickling warmth. Her lean boyish body curving in an arc as she hits the water, droplets reflecting a million suns.

_Splash_ and the lake is in your eyes, your hair, washing your skin clean, you imagine the stain on your soul rinsing away _just like that, _as if your mother's tears had never existed.

Then _she _is there, flinging herself through the water and her lips are quick, your first kiss, pure and sweet and soft as a newborn kitten. You hold her briefly, then like an eel she is gone and the game is on again.

She has bested you with the kiss, your mind stuttering over the moment, you'll never catch her now. She is already at the opposite bank, pulling herself out, laughter like silver bells on the breeze.

_Arianna, _and her mother is at the fence, stern and solid in her aprons. _Home. Now. _The line of confusion in her brow, words too sharp, unfamiliar. A shy smile in your direction, a secret look between you, _tomorrow, _and she leaves you sitting on the wet grass gazing after her.

You know her as you know yourself, although after the last days you wonder how much you really do.

* * *

There are horses in your garden when you go home. A mismatched trio, two chargers, chestnut hide gleaming in the sun, hot breath cascading from flaring nostrils, heavy hooves scraping the dirt. Between them, shadowed and small, a single grey pony, sweating under saddle.

When you push open the worn, paint-peeling green door, you _know_ even before you see the flashes of silver, hear your mother's muffled sobs.

You could run, but where would you go, what would they do then? The sudden fear you feel is not for you but for your family, your little sister still not much more than a baby at three, still learning about the world. You imagine your mother's hazel eyes, always full of love for her oldest son, the man of the house since...

This will be another loss for her, no death but gone just the same.

Stomach twisting, you lean against the wall and retch, desperately trying to purge what is already empty, trying to rid yourself of this nightmare, this new journey you never wanted, never asked for.

The clank of metal as the men stir, notice your arrival. One step towards you, then...

_No. _Lilac light surrounds you and you run to the only place you want to be, throwing yourself bodily on to the feather-soft mattress, your head beneath the embroidered scarlet pillow your mother made you when you were but a child, still untouched by the horrors this life had to offer.

You are a child now still, twelve summers, but something else too - a curse, an evil, a pollution on your family. A sin to be hidden away, a shameful secret.

_Go away. _You sense them standing over you, smell their scent, oil and musk and sweat. No words are spoken, no need, you understand what they are here for and they know that. The lilac light softens, disappears as you feel the _whoosh _of their silence, the drain of your energy. You are a babe again, helpless, wordless, tears on your cheeks.

They are none too kind as they grasp your thin arms in burly hands, pull you from the divan, from the room which once meant _safe_, _home_. Stumbling down the stairs, feet dragging as you try feebly to resist, a small boy between men.

Your mother is sitting at the table in the kitchen, and you gaze at her through eyes shadowed with ghosts, her face a study of pain, of terrible grief. Your sister is on the kitchen floor, playing with her favourite toys. She looks up at you and smiles. You hold that smile in your memory, burning it deep, as you are lifted on to the pony and settle in the saddle, acquiescent now. You realise you are still clutching your mother's pillow like a drowning man, the last thing remaining from your life before.

_Her_ house is at the end of the lane. She is in the window, fingers pressed against glass, eyes red and puffy with weeping.

You look away, too many goodbyes, not enough.


End file.
